


There are Worse Things we Could Do

by Dancains



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: (?), Also IMO Lucius is gay, Also they're both kind of dorks, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, And a little bit of a thrill seeker in his own way, Canon divergent after 4x21, I just really like the idea of this pairing? I hope this is plausible, M/M, One Shot, Season/Series 04
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-24
Updated: 2018-05-24
Packaged: 2019-05-13 06:35:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,188
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14743782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dancains/pseuds/Dancains
Summary: "What?" Oswald blinks slowly, struggling to follow this new thread."Like a trick gun, or- or it could be a flame thrower. No one would suspect it. Element of surprise, and all that."Oswald nearly cackles, trying to hide it with a cough. "A flame thrower? I wouldn't want that Firefly girl to think I'm stealing her shtick. Besides, you shouldn't be giving me ideas like that, no matter how ridiculous they are. Let me guess, you read too many comic books when you were young." He prods a finger at Fox's chest accusingly."That implies that I've stopped reading them."





	There are Worse Things we Could Do

**Author's Note:**

> Sooo I've been thinking about this potential pairing ever since I read "lose your nerve" by ShaneShenanigans (such a sweet interpretation of these guys!), and this somehow came together.
> 
> In this slight AU, Ra's Al Ghul never teamed up with Jeremiah, so the events of the season finale didn't take place.

"I don't...I don't usually drink this much," Lucius Fox tells him, for the second time that evening, and Oswald believes it. There can't be any other reason he'd still be here, sitting next to Oswald and talking to him instead of mingling with other acquaintances at this sorry excuse for a victory party.

Oswald supposed that was the best thing to call it. Two major, city-wide disasters had been avoided in the last two months, first Jerome Valeska's poison laced blimp, and now the myriad of bombs set by his surviving twin brother. Oswald had no doubt that the second Valeska, cold and serious and possibly even more unhinged than the first, would eventually escape the maximum security facility upstate, but for now at least, Gotham's citizens could sleep in relative safety. 

He suspects that Jim had put in a good word about him to the mayor, told him that Oswald's stint working for Jerome hadn't exactly been voluntary. Or that he had played a part in Barbara Kean's (admittedly less than noble) attempt to stop Valeska's bombs. Either way, here he was, rubbing shoulders with "Gotham's finest," most of whom had consumed enough champagne to not care that he was in attendance. At this point, with his current lack of funds, he wasn't one to turn away a night of free food and booze, anyway.

He remembers that Fox has said something to him, so he nods. Oswald's probably had the same amount to drink, but he just feels tired, and slightly buzzed. He tries not to think about how he's probably been a functioning alcoholic since his mid-twenties, how that might catch up with him one day if he lives long enough for it to try.

"You know," Fox leans in slightly, his tone shifting like he's telling a secret, "You and I worked together--albeit, indirectly--to diffuse those bombs."

"What?" Oswald asks distractedly. For some reason he had remembered that girl who worked for Barbara and Tabitha, who had worked for him ages ago, how he had once watched her in the Sirens' club expertly picking pockets among the swanky patrons. He could probably swipe Fox's wallet from his suit jacket now, where it lays folded over another empty chair, but at this point he still has too much pride to resort to that sort of thing.

"When you called Bullock, told him what you know about Valeska's plan. If you hadn't given him that information, I wouldn't have been able to figure out how the individual bombs functioned together as a matrix. I don't think you know how close it was, to this whole city being blown to smithereens." It's almost like the weight of the words stun him back into a semblance of sobriety.

Oswald sends him his best scathing look, eyebrow quirked in a well practiced motion. It wasn't like it was the first time the city had been threatened by some violent weirdo, and it certainly wouldn't be the last. 

"How close was it exactly, Mr. Fox?" Oswald asks, if only to humor him.

"There were two identical wires where there had only been one in the blueprints. Detective Bullock just picked one and cut it. If I'm not mistaken, 'eeny, meeny, miny, moe' was involved."

Oswald dramatically puts his hand to his chest as if in shock, though he's not sure how much he's really acting.  _"Dear God."_

It brings a wry smile to Fox's face, and soon he's shaking in silent laughter. Oswald can't help but join him, for a short moment. Part of him notices how handsome Fox is, when he smiles like that, but Oswald just ignores that, ignores the way it pulls oddly at his stomach. Instead he extends a hand, as if in a truce.

"Well, it was a pleasure saving Gotham with you." he says dryly, "Let's hope there's no need for such alignments again."

Fox takes his hand, shakes it in a business-like fashion, with a soft palm and a firm grip. "To misquote a popular idiom, strange circumstances make for strange bedfellows."

When Oswald lets go, he wonders if there's something more to read from that. He takes a pensive swallow from his glass.

Fox coughs awkwardly, as if sensing what exactly Oswald was thinking. "Metaphorically speaking, of course." he mutters, almost too quiet to hear with the murmur of voices around them. "Jim told me about how you steered that blimp away from the city, how you were stuck in it for hours. I would have been right under where he had originally planned to drop the stuff."

Oswald thinks about that for moment. He's not used to people thanking him for doing things, especially not doing good things. "I'm not trying to start a habit with this whole-" he lazily flourishes a hand, "-good deeds thing. It was all in my benefit."

He leans in, reaching across Fox for the pitcher of water on the table, bringing their faces closer in the process. "Don't make any mistake Mr. Fox, I am still a  _very bad man._ " He punctuates the last three words with terse pauses. 

Fox tenses, his Adam's apple bobbing at his throat, though he doesn't move away. Hopefully, Oswald has had his desired effect.

He leans back in his chair, having secured the glass pitcher. "Water? You look like you could use some."

Fox holds out his empty glass. "Please." 

The tone isn't right, Oswald thinks to himself. He doesn't sound like a man that had just been discretely threatened by a notorious criminal, if anything he seems all the more intrigued. It makes Oswald remember Ed, the first few times they had spoken, and like every other time Oswald has recently thought of him, the memories almost make him feel sick to his stomach.

But Fox wasn't Ed, he reminds himself, Not by a long shot. For one, they wore their intelligence differently--Fox, without the air that it somehow made him better than other people. He lacked Ed's obnoxious edge of narcissism. 

Secondly, Lucius Fox knew how to dress well, Oswald thought slyly. He evidently knew what looked good on himself; his wine colored dress shirt, which would have been unflattering paired with Oswald's own pallor, was cut in all the right places. It was certainly a far cry from the garish thing that Ed now tried to call a suit, or the way he had dressed when he held the positon that Fox did now. Oswald couldn't care less about the state of the GCPD--would probably benefit from their disfunction--but he knew they had certainly made an upgrade there.

He almost over pours Fox's glass of water in his revery, but manages to stop before it spills over. He takes an unused glass from across the table and pours some for himself. Fox eyes him curiously, and doesn't look away when Oswald returns the look more sharply. He was sure they were both a bit drunk now.

Some sort of saccharine pop music is playing over the venue's speakers. "They could have at least picked some more sophisticated music for the venue," Oswald finally says, unsure of why he wants to keep up the conversation.

Fox smiles again, which is slightly infuriating. "Wouldn't be my first choice, but it's not terrible." Oswald suspects he's tapping one foot to the syncopation, under the table.

"You carry an umbrella sometimes," Fox says, wavering between a question and a statement. Oswald can hear the slight slur to his words now, even through the crisp articulation.

"Yes?"

"What if- what if it was a gun?"

"What?" Oswald blinks slowly, struggling to follow this new thread. 

"Like a trick gun, or- or it could be a flame thrower. No one would suspect it. Element of surprise, and all that."

Oswald nearly cackles, trying to hide it with a cough. "A flame thrower? I wouldn't want that Firefly girl to think I'm stealing her shtick. Besides, you shouldn't be giving me ideas like that, no matter how ridiculous they are. Let me guess, you read too many comic books when you were young." He prods a finger at Fox's chest accusingly. 

"That implies that I've stopped reading them."

Oswald scoffs behind his glass, but it sounds more like another dry laugh. When they grow silent again there's a remaining air of shared amusement. 

Fox clears his throat, after what feels like a short eternity. "Excuse me. I need to use the men's room."

Oswald can't help but let his eyes linger on the man's retreating form. He's left his jacket, so he's not trying to covertly slip out of the party, at least. 

Oswald stays a minute, then, without really thinking it through, gets up and follows in the same direction. He passes by Gordon and Bullock, talking to a police woman he doesn't know the name of. Luckily, they don't take any notice of him.

He has no idea what he's doing when he twists the doorknob to the men's room and opens it, finding Fox methodically washing his hands as he hums under his breath. Otherwise the bathroom is unoccupied. They catch each other's gaze in the mirror above the bank of sinks and there's something that Oswald might describe a recognition. Fox turns around, his back to the sink now, and looks Oswald over--really looks him over, as if seeing him for the first time.

Oswald hopes he likes what he sees, though he doubts it.

He ignores his own reflection over Fox's shoulder, face sallow under the fluroescent lights, and hair too shiny from too much product. He could use a haircut, something he's been avoiding. But, as always, he's dressed well. He's always had that.

Maybe it's because of his lowly feelings about himself, or the fact that Fox is looking at him _like that_ despite them, that he presses forward the few steps, crowding into the man's space. He wants to put a panic into those clever dark eyes, set a flutter those damnable long lashes. Prove to himself that he still has something to him, that he hasn't gone soft. Or at least that's what he tells himself.

He has a hand braced on either side of the counter, back straight to bring himself to his full five-feet-six-inches when one of Fox's still-wet hands goes to his elbow and then they're kissing, clumsy but heated all the same. Even tipsy, Fox certainly knows what he's doing, tilts his head just right and wraps an arm around so his hand slides up Oswald's back, and it's _good,_ better than good, better than anything Oswald's felt in a painfully long time. And then Fox pulls away, gently putting the flat of his palm to Oswald's chest to pry them the few inches apart.

"We shouldn't- I don't really do this sort of thing..." Fox tells him, dazed and conflicted.

"What?  _Men?_ " Oswald shoots back, hiding his embarrassment behind flippancy. 

Fox has the audacity to laugh, though good-naturedly as ever. "I was the vice-president of my university's GSA."

Oswald does his best not to roll his eyes. He doesn't like feeling ridiculous and that's exactly what he feels like now.

"I just meant...like this. In a bathroom, at a party, with my co-workers outside--who aren't exactly fond of you, and for rather legitimate reasons, I might add."

Oswald takes a deep breath, and smooths his features into cold indifference. "Well, you could just tell yourself you got caught up in it all--the city is safe once again and we all had just a little too much bubbly. I suggest you collect your jacket from the table before someone opportunistic decides to swipe your billfold." He turns on his heels to leave, half glancing over his shoulder. " _Au revoir,_ Mr. Fox."

"Wait."

Against his best judgement, he stops.

"I didn't...what I mean is- You know, I'm usually so much better with words."

"I've noticed."

"Do you have a phone number? I mean one that stays the same?"

Oswald can feel himself go embarassingly warm all over but he does his best not to show it. "No, but I'm sure you do."

Fox hastily pats his trouser pockets and extracts a business card. Just as he's handing it to Oswald, the both of their eyes dart to the door, where they can hear footsteps. After a second they retreat, maybe heading into the ladies' next door. Oswald lets out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding and he see's Fox's shoulders drop, the split second of tension in the room popped like a cork from a bottle. 

Oswald takes the card from him, slides it into the inner pocket of his suit with just the hint of a smirk. "Good night, Mr. Fox." he says with an air of finality.

"Lucius," Fox corrects.

Oswald nods, the name still on his tongue as he leaves the party and melts back into the bleakness of the city. If anyone had looked closely they might have seen a faint, damp imprint of a hand on his dark suit, though no one did.


End file.
